


Tight-Lipped and Loyal to a Fault

by tamerofdarkstars



Series: hc_bingo fills: round 5 [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Beating, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, M/M, Realizations, Whump, hc_bingo: round 5, whumped!Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1831150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all his armor, Arthur has one glaring weakness, and someone isn't above using him to get to Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tight-Lipped and Loyal to a Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Interrogation square on my [hc_bingo card](http://tamerofdarkstars.dreamwidth.org/1153.html).
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of being beaten and brief use of one gay slur.

Ok, so clearly, somewhere along the line, Arthur had made a mistake. Or several mistakes. He hadn’t been careful enough, hadn’t squashed his feelings down deep enough, hadn’t been able to quell that pathetic flame of hope that sometimes flickered in his face every time a breathy _darling_ was tossed his way.

And apparently, someone had noticed.

The muscle in front of him slapped him, hard, and his head snapped to the left as all his breath left him in a hiss. The chair he was tied to groaned as he shifted, the wood creaking, but it couldn’t exactly go anywhere with him tied so tightly. They’d bound his hands together behind his back, pulling his arms taut until his shoulders were screaming with agony.

Arthur spat blood and saliva onto the cement, watching dully as it splattered in an explosion of rusty color.

“Look, Arthur, this is ridiculous. Just tell me where he is. I know you’re keeping tabs on him.” The voice came from behind him and to the right, hovering just out of eyesight, but it didn’t matter. Arthur had figured out who it was the instant he’d opened his eyes.

“Fuck off.” Arthur mumbled, but with the blood pooling in his mouth and the concussion blurring the edges of his vision, it came out more as a forceful slurring of consonants than the insult he’d meant.

“Hit him again.”

This time, Arthur didn’t even see it coming, the pain sending explosions of starry color behind his eyelids. The world swam in a haze of blood and agony, and he groaned, low and throaty as the chair tilted.

His world suddenly righted as someone caught the chair before it fell, and Arthur reached deep inside and gathered every ounce of iron will he possessed, using it to stay conscious. Conscious, he was alive. Unconscious, his chances of survival went down significantly to almost nothing. He’d have been able to approximate the odds, were he able to think clearly.

Someone gripped his chin, lifting his head from where it rested against his chest and looking him in the eye.

Mattie O’Malley was pure Irish, born and bred, with hair so red it was almost obscene and a tendency towards manic-depressive mood swings that was borderline sociopathic. He was also a notoriously skilled extractor, with a success ratio that approached the best in the business.

Arthur had loathed him the moment they’d met, shaking hands as an airport terminal hummed around them. The feeling, turned out, had been entirely mutual.

“Now, listen here, Arthur.” Mattie growled, squeezing Arthur’s jaw so that his cheeks shoved his lips forward. “That limey bastard owes me my cut of our last job. And I know you keep tabs on him like the pathetic little fag you are.”

Arthur coughed weakly, and a dribble of blood leaked out of his mouth and made its steady way down his chin. “Fuck. Off.” He enunciated, as clear as he could. He couldn’t tell if the words made it, but his tone of voice was clear enough.

Mattie’s face went from forced congeniality to thunderous in the blink of an eye and he shoved, hard. The chair tipped backwards and Arthur was, for a brief, confused moment, weightless. Words shot through his mind like bullets, words like _kickdreamwakerealfakeeames_ when the chair crashed against the concrete, and Arthur’s head connected with the floor.

His brain smashed against the side of his skull and someone was screaming, raw screams of agony that just made his head hurt more and Arthur could tell he was about to pass out. He understood that, on some basic, subconscious level, but was in no place to communicate anything. No one would hear him anyway, past that high-pitched shrieking.

A hand fumbled roughly through his pockets and removed something. Arthur felt it slip against his thigh and just had the presence of mind to feel a stab of panic beneath the thunderstorm of anguish that was consuming his entire world before everything went suddenly and mercifully black.

-

Sometime later, Arthur clawed his way to the surface of wakefulness. It was important – waking up was important. There was something he needed to do, something that was sending his blood thrumming with urgency, something that grabbed hold of his throbbing brainstem and yanked it up and into the sunlight far before he was ready.

Arthur opened his eyes, jerking up with a gasp, fingers fumbling for the gun he always kept at his bedside. He made it about a quarter of the way before his entire body exploded with pain and he made a sort of strangled yelp, dropping back to the pillows and contorting in on himself with a whimper.

Holy _fuck_ everything hurt. His head was screaming with the worst headache he’d ever had, his jaw ached, the light burned his eyes, at least two of his fingers were broken and furious with him for attempting to use them, multiple contusions and lacerations… it was a wonder he was still alive.

“Shit!” Footsteps thudded somewhere outside Arthur’s realm of hazy agony and gentle fingers carefully tugged at him, trying to unfold him from the protective ball he’d tried to form, despite protesting from his undoubtedly bruised ribs. “Just lie still, there’s a love.”

And that was a voice Arthur knew, a voice he recognized and, despite everything, had come to trust.

“Eames.” He croaked, and there was a huff of air that sounded like a strangled laugh.

“Yes, it’s me, bloody hell, you scared the shit out of me, Arthur.”

Eames’ fingers were flying over his body, carefully cataloging injuries, and Arthur realized for the first time that he was lying on a bed. Thinking hurt, and he had the sneaking suspicion his memories weren’t all there, but some gut feeling was telling him he hadn’t gone to sleep on a bed.

If he’d even gone to sleep. It felt more like he’d been run over by a semi-truck.

“What happened?” He tried to ask, eyes still shut against the blinding light of the room, but the words came out more like _whappen?_.

“You tell me.” Eames’ fingers retracted and Arthur groaned, his control on his impulses loose at best. “I get a text from your phone asking to meet and the next thing I know, fucking Mattie O’Malley is pointing a gun at me and you’re—”

Eames broke off then, and Arthur tried to open his eyes again. Nope. Still a terrible idea. He hissed a breath and squeezed them shut again. Sensitivity to light combined with the absolute monster of a headache said concussion. Probably grade 3. He’d need an MRI to rule out internal bleeding.

“He…” Talking felt like gargling glass, but Arthur cleared his dry throat and tried again. “He wanted you. You owe him money. I think. Fuck, my head hurts. _Fuck_.”

“I know, I _know_ , fuck, darling, here, hang on.”

The footsteps trailed away, presumably to get water and meds from somewhere, but Arthur was already unconscious.

-

Arthur was gently woken up sometime later and he opened his eyes, swearing forcefully in a mixture of Russian and French as he squeezed his eyes shut again. His head hurt marginally less, but his fingers were still taped haphazardly together and his lungs still strained his ribs every time he took a breath.

“Do you know your name?”

“Name’s _Arthur_ , Eames, fuck.”

“Just checking, darling. Want some medicine?”

Arthur thought about it, then immediately realized that thinking still hurt. A lot.

“Yes.”

“Okay, you have to sit up a bit, there we go.”

Eames’ hand was strong and firm against his back and Arthur didn’t really try all that much to lift himself. A glass bumped against his lower lip and ow, fuck, that hurt too, damn it, and Arthur gamely sipped a little water. It wet his parched throat and he suddenly realized that he was insanely, ridiculously, desperately thirsty. He grabbed at the glass and guzzled greedily, spilling water down his front and into his lap.

He coughed, choking on the water and lunged forward, straining every part of his body as he tried not to vomit.

There was the sound of the glass hitting the floor, a sharp _clink_ and a roll, and then Eames was there, rubbing his back and murmuring nonsense syllables of encouragement into his ear. The words weren’t important – it was the tone of voice that Arthur clung to, that familiar lilt layered with something warm, something easy, and, beneath it all, a vague sense of tightly controlled panic.

“Eames.”

“Hm?”

“Am I dying?”

“ _Fuck_ no, darling. Not while I’m still here.”

Something tight unwound in Arthur’s stomach and relief he didn’t know he was looking for flooded through him. He sighed, deeply, and let Eames lower him back to the pillows.

He drifted off almost instantly, without his medication. If he’d been more alert, more together, less concussed, he’d have felt the fingers brushing his hair and the dry press of a wordless promise against his forehead.

-

This continued several more times – Eames dutifully woke Arthur and asked him his name every hour, and every time, Arthur’s vision got a little clearer. The fifth time Eames woke him, asking his name in a voice roughened with sleep, Arthur was able to open his eyes without wincing. He blinked, warily, at the ceiling, and then turned his head.

Eames was watching him from a chair next to the bed. High backed and wooden, it appeared to be a dining room chair. Arthur wondered briefly where they were – safe house, vacant apartment, house closed down for the weekend while its occupants were out – and then realized that Eames was waiting for an answer. There were dark circles under Eames’ eyes, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

“Arthur.” Arthur croaked, and Eames sighed.

“Good.” He settled back in his chair again and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

Arthur stared at him.

After a few seconds, Eames opened his eyes again and frowned at him. “What? In pain? Need something? What?”

Arthur blinked, slowly, cataloguing everything for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Thanks, Eames.”

Eames looked taken aback for a split second before color flew up his cheeks and settled across the bridge of his nose. “Arthur,” He said gently, leaning forward with a serious look on his face. “You have a grade 3 concussion, so many bruises I can barely tell what color you usually are, a busted lip, three broken fingers, and a bloody fuckton of other injuries I can barely even guess at, and you still didn’t tell them where I was.”

There was something in his eyes, something liquid and dark and full of emotion, and Arthur frowned. “Of course not.” He said, stiffly, and Eames just huffed a humorless chuckle and sat back in his chair, shaking his head.

“Go back to sleep, darling. We’ll talk again in an hour.”

Arthur wanted to protest, wanted to try and draw that liquid feeling back out of Eames’ eyes, but exhaustion was setting back in.

He struggled gamely for a few moments before giving up and letting his mind drift, resolving to interrogate Eames further when he woke up.

-

The next time Eames woke him, Arthur’s pain was at a level where he could fight it. He struggled to sit, stubbornly waving away Eames’ hovering, and finally managed to get relatively upright under his own power.

“Meds?” Eames asked, quietly, and Arthur nodded, the motion tentative and testing. His head only protested a little and he was pleased at the tiny victory. Eames passed him a handful of pills and a glass of water and it said something about Arthur’s level of trust in Eames that he barely glanced at them before knocking back the entire handful.

They were quiet for a long minute. Eames stared fixedly at the carpet, and Arthur stared into his water glass, quietly cataloguing every ache on his body.

“Was it bad?” He finally asked, and Eames twitched, barely.

“Pretty bad.” The forger admitted, and Arthur waited only a beat before leaning forward and placing his hand carefully on top of the hand Eames had curled tightly into his trousers.

They sat like that for several extended moments, Arthur’s hand, clammy and cool, against Eames’, both resting on top of Eames’ knee.

“Why didn’t you just give me up?” Eames finally burst out, the words tight and angry, and his hand flexed underneath Arthur’s. “Why the fuck did you—he was going to _kill_ you, Arthur.”

Arthur slowly drew his hand back and stared down at the rumpled blankets. Cotton, light for the summer, they had a faint floral pattern on them. If Arthur had to guess, he’d place them in someone’s vacation condo.

“I may be a stick in the mud, Eames,” He said flatly, tracing the flowers with his eyes, “as you so lovingly put it, but I don’t betray my friends.”

“Oh, we’re friends?”

Arthur turned to look at him and there it was again, that strange liquid something in Eames’ eyes. Eames was looking at him like his whole world hinged on Arthur’s words, like he’d never forged casual in his life, like he was always this open and raw and _afraid_. Arthur wet his lips, noting with interest how Eames’ eyes flicked down to watch the motion.

“Eames,” He said, choosing his words with the utmost caution. “Eames, if you think I did that, that I went through that for someone I didn’t care about, you’re far less intelligent than I thought.”

Eames went deathly still and silent, frozen like a statue, and Arthur wondered in a dull sort of panic if he chose the right words. The moment was as tense as a high wire, and he was walking above the crowd without a safety net.

“And I do, Eames.” Arthur said into the silence. “Care about you.”

Eames made some kind of noise Arthur couldn’t translate and he summoned all his courage and tossed Eames a look.

The forger had his eyes closed and his head tilted back, breathing out long calming breaths through his nose. Arthur winced – that might have been too far too soon– but then Eames was opening his eyes and looking at Arthur and oh.

 _Oh_.

Something so very painfully obvious slotted into place with a dull thunk and Arthur suddenly understood everything. It was like he’d been looking at the world through a pair of glasses two prescriptions too old and had then switched to a fresh pair with the proper lenses.

“Oh.” He said, simply.

“Yeah.” Eames croaked.

It was all that really needed to be said. After a moment, Eames stood up and vanished into the next room, returning in half a minute with a fresh glass of water. Arthur looked up at him, fingers curled in his blankets, feeling incredibly small and exposed.

“Me too, you know.”

Eames half-stumbled, catching the back of the dining room chair with his free hand and looked at Arthur with wide, blinking eyes.

“Yeah.” He said finally, and there was something wonderfully and uncharacteristically nervous in his voice, something that made Arthur’s heart swell and his throat close with unrestrained affection. “I know.”

 


End file.
